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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909234">Withered</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunchLich/pseuds/LunchLich'>LunchLich</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Study, Hurt No Comfort, Kinda, One Shot, Short One Shot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:20:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunchLich/pseuds/LunchLich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon doesn't feel like himself anymore.</p><p>(s4 spoilers)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Withered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>possible cw for dissociation/depersonalization? not exactly, but it could definitely read that way</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nothing was the same anymore. Looking around his office, it felt like even the room had shapeshifted into something unrecognizable from how what it had been when he became The Archivist. There were bloodstains on the floor, blood stains soaked into the grainy wood of his desk at the edges. The floorboards were looser. If you looked close enough, you could find scorch marks dotting the room. </p><p>He'd rearranged his desk a multitude of times. Whether it had been for the organization or out of a nervous need for control, he couldn't tell. Speckles of ash, his rib, a lighter, a few files he'd saved to look over. A dusty tape recorder with strings of spider silk strung across it. They all hid in the drawer. The hands that rested shakily upon the top of his desk were scarred and frail. Burned, cut, and burrowed into. Nails chipped and bitten down to their quicks. </p><p>Jon didn't feel like himself anymore.</p><p>More than that, he simply wasn't himself anymore. He was sure of that, both reflection of mind and mirror showed all the proof he needed. He could find no connecting threads to his life a mere two or three years ago. </p><p>Not even small things. Down to his music tastes had changed, all the way up to his appearance and the people he associated with, nothing had remained the way it was.</p><p>His body felt withered and weak now. The Beholding felt like a parasite, dug deep into his organs and slowly ate him from the inside out. All he could do was bring it offerings in hopes it wouldn't fully consume him. His hair was frizzier, split ends running rampant as his hair grew out and the few grey strands he'd had turned to streaks. </p><p>His face grew more gaunt. Scruffier. The circles under his eyes closer resembled bruises these days. His irises faded from a pretty hazel to an uncanny, inhuman green. </p><p>Sasha was dead. Tim was dead. </p><p>Melanie had been traumatized because of him, so had Daisy. Neither of them were themselves anymore, either. Basira didn't trust him, and that much he couldn't blame her for. </p><p>Martin... He thinks Martin may have lost himself just as much as he has. There's no way to tell when he can't get close enough to see him most days. Jon is fairly sure that Martin once cared for him very deeply. </p><p>He thinks that has changed, too.</p><p>He sits with his elbows on his desk, his aching head in his aching hands, and he is so, so tired. He'd always been tired, but not this same tired. This deep, penetrating tired that affected every part of him, from head to toe. The tired that held a weight that couldn't be lifted by any amount of sleep like it used to. Even that was not the same.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>was this a vent piece? thats for me to know and you to not worry about</p></blockquote></div></div>
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